Empire of Death
by Forever Jake
Summary: The prologue to this should really be separate. Incomplete. With his rival, Illidan, dead, and his former master, the Lich King, reduced to a mere shadow, King Arthas sets out to take over the kingdoms of his enemies from within. Yet one soul will oppose
1. Prologue

"Empire of Death"  
By Forever Jake  
  
Prologue

* * *

The creature that had once been Arthas Terenas climbed the frozen steps one by one, passing silently over them like so many fallen foes. The stairs numbered in the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, but the challengers the Death Knight had vanquished numbered many, many more. Countless heroes of good and evil alike had sought to best him or bar his path. All had failed. Some lay still where they had collapsed, defeated, on this forgotten battlefield or that; others marched behind him, an army of lost souls, cursed to wander forever in the metaphysical wasteland that stretched between the kingdoms of life and death. Here, in this wasteland, he had carved his own kingdom – the kingdom of the Scourge.  
  
His kingdom knew no bounds, and his subjects were without number. His will was infinite.  
  
_My child returns to me_, spoke a voice through the darkness of the chamber, and through the greater darkness of Arthas' mind.  
  
_Father_, Arthas responded silently. He had reached the top of the stairway, and stood staring into a block of solid ice perched atop a raised dais – Ner'zhul's prison.  
  
Ner'zhul's presence in his mind felt eager... hungry. It was an unfriendly warmth, unwelcome in the cool recesses of the Death Knight's psyche. He lightly brushed off the touch.  
  
_Return the blade_, the voice of the Lich King said, echoing from his prison. He seemed almost apologetic, regretful for the discomfort his touch caused in his favored son. _Complete the circle_. One more task, and that discomfort would forever fade, he promised.  
  
_Of course, Father_, Arthas smiled. His hand, which had been brushing aside a lock of silver hair, now fell to his side and found his scabbard... and then a deft arm held aloft Frostmourne, the skull-visaged steel harbinger of Undeath that had been Arthas' only constant companion since his rebirth. He squinted in the filtered sunlight as it reflected off of the blade. The dazzling glow made him feel giddy... almost alive.  
  
He grinned, his eyes locked with the empty sockets of the sword's hilt, as though they'd been not bare crevasses in cold steel, but the pupils of a dear friend with whom he was now forced to part.  
  
Sword struck ice. The prison crumbled. Frostmourne vanished.  
  
Ner'zhul flowed into Arthas' mind like a raging river, washing over a lifetime's worth of thoughts and memories. Visions of vast palaces and festive balls, humans dressed in royal attire... images of quests and adventures, monsters fought and princesses rescued... all went blank as the Lich King claimed his champion.  
  
Something was not right, however. Ner'zhul could feel it, a single wry element in the blank tapestry he was weaving. He wove faster, hoping to submerge the intangible flaw in the vacuum of the blank quilt. It did not sink into the darkness, however, but flared to light, a bright beacon amidst the endless fog.  
  
Something struck Arthas' boot, jarring his concentration. He looked down at it, interested. It appeared to be some sort of helm, ornately carved by ancient hands. It was a meaningless artifact out of antiquity, its purpose forgotten... yet as he gazed at it, he found himself drawn to gaze longer, to discern its purpose...  
  
Ner'zhul continued to weave, to push out the wrinkles of thought that marred Arthas' otherwise blank mind. Every time he smoothed out a crease, however, another corner knotted up... and the single, bright flaw still remained, like a patch of driftwood to which a drowning man would cling.  
  
Arthas had bent and lifted the helm from the ground. Though appeared to be of stone, it felt strangely light in his gloved hand. He held it now scant inches from his face... something deep within himself urged him to place it on his head, but he would not... not he...  
  
His mind was blank, empty, dark and smooth, a void and a vacuum. Into this dark cavern, however, the light of a hundred suns suddenly flared. Ner'zhul's voice, distantly, cursed, and a vision sprang into Arthas' otherwise empty head...  
  
Just as he had summoned it.  
  
It was a familiar scene, one he had revisited a hundred times since its occurrence. He knew it by heart, like a dream one has had countless times. Yet now it flared to life anew, as though it were unfolding before him at just that moment.  
  
He was walking along a wide corridor with no roof. It's walls were city buildings and its floor was street. The air was thick with red objects – flower petals? – a display welcoming a returning hero.  
  
But the hero had not returned as the city had remembered him.  
  
In the vision, Arthas was clothed in a brown cloak and black, skeletal armor, symbolic of his then-new master and cause. It was the same cloak and armor he wore now, at the top of the world, caked with dirt and ice from many months of travel and ordeal... a thousand lifetimes of conflict, death and rebirth.  
  
He reached the end of the corridor, and swung wide a pair of doors which opened before his might, revealing a darkened chamber. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the vanished light, he stepped into the room.  
  
Shadows danced along the walls as he took in his father's throne, the majestically tiled floor, and the countless alcoves along the hall's perimeter. The shadows had always there danced, mimicking the flickering torchlight... now, however, they seemed alive... sinister.  
  
King Terenas opened his mouth and spoke warmly to his son, but his words were drowned out.  
  
_My son_, Ner'zhul said, his words creeping into Arthas' vision. _What is going on here_? The scene flickered, but remained.  
  
The Arthas in the scene had knelt, and risen again, and now crossed quickly to his father's side. Light glinted off of his blade as he raised it above his head.  
  
_What are you doing, my son_? Ner'zhul and Terenas spoke in unison.  
  
_Succeeding you, Father_, the two Arthases responded.  
  
The vision exploded into novas of blue and gray light, a symphony of frost and flame. Frostmourne found flesh as Terenas' crown slipped from his head and rolled theatrically down the steps of the throne. Pieces crumbled off of the glittering circlet as it smeared the spilt royal blood across the stone floor.  
  
Arthas felt the muscles in his hand relax, the skull-carved helm falling from his slackened grip. The artifact shattered as its struck the ice. There was no defiant roar, no deafening blow; only a quiet hiss of warm air escaping the broken crown in a burst of steam.  
  
The sound of falling drums remained in Arthas' ears long after the vision had faded. Presently they were joined by other sounds – the sounds of falling rock and ice, of avalanche.  
  
Icecrown Spire was collapsing.  
  
Arthas descended the stairs, taking them two at a time. His mind was not on reaching the bottom; he knew he would. He was focused inward, on the rush of power that flooded his chest. He breathed it into his lungs; it filled his heart, his rapid pulse funneling it back outward, circulating it through his welcoming veins like rivers of ice. He could feel it pressing all around him like a crushing wave... but he would not let it destroy him. He embraced the wave, riding it down, down, down, to the foot of the spire.

* * *

He opened his eyes. The ice had covered him – for how long, he did not know. There were others now, however, clambering atop the fallen mountain, searching for some sign of their master.  
  
_Their only master_, he thought.  
  
A pair of hands appeared under the innermost layer of ice, and then a dark, bearded face. There was a shout; sounds of bodies moving. More hands appeared, lifting off chunks of debris, digging the Lord of the Scourge from his tomb.  
  
"Where have they run," he asked, when his mouth had been freed.  
  
"South, my Lord," one of the diggers answered, "towards the coast. We already have forces in pursuit."  
  
"Terminate them with the greatest prejudice. Let none escape."  
  
"Of course, Lord. For the Lich King!"  
  
"No!" Arthas' arm was free now, and he grabbed the speaker's shoulder. The man looked back at him, bewildered. "For King Arthas... the true King of the Scourge."  
  
The man swallowed. "Aye, Lord... for King Arthas." He turned and raised an arm, yelling to those assembled, "For King Arthas! For the King of the Scourge!"  
  
A cry went out among the dead as Arthas stood, finally free of his icy prison. All around him his kingdom stretched, his subjects as numerous as the flakes of snow, filling his view. The ranks of the Scourge cheered, their vile wails and hisses exalting him.  
  
_What was yours now is mine_, he said silently, addressing the air and the snow. _This old kingdom, your kingdom, has fallen. From it shall I carve my new order... and all the world shall be its dominion._

_

* * *

_


	2. Chapter I

"Empire of Death"  
By Forever Jake  
  
Chapter 1

* * *

Shadows flickered against the torchlight in the catacombs of Undercity. The Legion's magical assaults had reduced the surface of the former capitol to rubble, crushing the tall towers into mounds of unrecognizable debris and cleaving massive faults in the earth to swallow up the shorter buildings. Many humans had died that day, victims of nearly instantaneous destruction. Later they would be counted lucky to have escaped the horrors to come.  
  
One such horror sat now at a desk in an otherwise empty hall. The room Sylvanas Windrunner now claimed as her private study had once been the throne room of King Terenas himself, but he had not lived to see it in its current subterranean location. He had been slain scant days before the cataclysm, murdered by his own son, Arthas.  
  
Arthas, the traitor king of the dead. Arthas, who sat at the right hand of Ner'zhul, the Legion's puppet. Arthas, the boy shade who had stolen countless lives... including Sylvanas' own, far away in the pristine groves of her childhood. That land, Quel'thalas, had once been called the Realm Eternal. Now it, like all the world, it seemed, had been converted into one massive cemetery of empty graves; a memorial ground for slaughtered elves and walking dead.  
  
Behind all the destruction in her mind, a vision of Arthas remained, his diabolic face forever frozen in her memory. It was he who had slain her, and he who had called her back from the grave to fight, kill and _never die_, for him. _For him._  
  
She was free of him, now... Almost. She had liberty of her movement, her speech and, most precious, her thoughts. She could oppose him, fight against him and his numberless Scourge. Yet still, she could not die. She longed to lie beside her fallen kin in the now-silent forests of Quel'thalas. She longed to cease moving, cease thinking, to sleep forever. But each time she lost herself in the blackness of a new false death, she would awake anew to find the cold face of Arthas staring back into her mind.  
  
She opened a drawer near the top of the desk. She did not know how the wooden object had survived, but now it belonged to her. It housed her most prized possession – the only thing which brought her joy.  
  
She reached into the drawer and retrieved a short, dark knife. A tiny skull had been carved into its hilt, and the nostrils of the skull now breathed perpetual frost out onto the black blade. Each puff of cold air illuminated for an instant an inscription that ran along the edge of the weapon.  
  
She did not read the runed message now; she didn't have to. She knew it by heart: _I kill what does not die; I banish what cannot_ _flee. Those who linger far too long shall come to seek, in dying, me.  
_  
Long had she studied to discern the blade's purpose, once it had fallen into her possession. When she'd learned it, she'd laughed and cried. Now she sat studying it, her blue, pupil-less eyes moving over its shaft. She could use it, now; she could end her curse forever, and lie silently without being doomed to wake.  
  
She replaced the blade in the drawer and shut it. One other would feel its touch before she.  
  
"My Lady?" said a voice. There were no doors in Undercity. The cataclysm had shattered any wood barrier that might have divided a pair of rooms. Sylvanas' minions, the Forsaken, as she had named them, came and went as they pleased. There was no knock to be made upon an entrance, and only before their Dark Lady did they announce their arrival. Not that even that was necessary – Sylvanas had sensed her servant approaching long before the necromancer spoke.  
  
"What do you want?" she snapped. She wanted to be alone, to fall asleep alone... it was the closest thing to death she could indulge in.  
  
"Forgive me, my Lady," the necromancer said, "but we have brought the prisoner here, as you ordered."  
  
"Where is he?" she asked quickly.  
  
"We have thrown the lich into the crypt. The Nerubians are preparing to question him, I believe."  
  
"Tell them not to begin the interrogation until I arrive." The necromancer nodded and scuttled off, his sandals echoing down the corridor.  
  
She permitted herself a smile. Her self-indulgent depression and ill-needed nap could wait.  
  
They had found Kel'thuzad.

* * *

Kael'thas stood, shivering, on the beach, his tattered red cape fluttering like a flag of surrender in the brisk, cruel wind. The cold bit at him through his insulated cape and armor, and even the flames of his magic could not warm him. The energies of the demon, Kil'jaeden, had died with Illidan at the foot of the Icecrown Spire, and now his own powers were rapidly fading as well. Without some new source of magic, the Blood Elves would die.  
  
Yet that doom, however certain, was still the more distant of the two which threatened his people at present. Even with the promise of some new well of power, the Blood Elves first had to escape from Northrend, and the continent did not seem wont to see them go. Cruel winds cut into them or crushed them into the ground, or sometimes whipped at them hard enough to fling an unlucky warrior far into the air. The snow dragged at their feet, slowing their path, and now, having reached the sea at last, the freezing ocean sprays pelted them with frost and half-hardened hail.  
  
The naga had already vanished into the seas, their alliance apparently no longer binding with their lord dead. Kael wondered if he would ever see Vashj again, and whether she would be friend or foe. He wondered what would kill them first – their hunger for magic, the awful winter winds, or the ever-sleepless armies of the Scourge. Already scouts had caught sight of the dead marching distantly behind them, never quite catching up but never losing the scent, like wolves after wounded prey. Now the elves were trapped in a slowly constricting net, caught between the anvil of the ocean and the hammer of the Scourge.  
  
Kael had managed a Flame Strike to ignite the skeleton of a wrecked ship they had found, and around this beacon the elves had gathered, vainly trying to warm themselves against the bitter cold. The fire, however, was dying, helpless before the raging winds that ceaselessly attempted to snuff it out. Occasionally a puff of steam would hiss into existence when a wave of snow found its way into the heart of the bonfire.  
  
He had not even realized he had lost consciousness until he felt his lieutenant's gloved hand shaking him. He opened his eyes wide in surprise, and quickly narrowed them again to mere slits to block out the blinding white of the snowstorm.  
  
The lieutenant was pointing at something, out in the storm somewhere. Kael followed the invisible line with his eyes, squinting to make out some shape in the swirling blizzard. Presently his eyes adjusted to the patterns of the falling snow, and he could see a thin black line at the top of a far- off hill. As he watched, the line slowly thickened and widened, expanding to cover more and more ground. What was this? Some spell of illusion? Some mirage, perhaps, born of fatigue and the storm? Gradually the shape grew larger and larger, until Kael guessed at what he was seeing.  
  
The Scourge had come for them at last.  
  
Some of soldiers were crying. Others were drawing swords or readying spells. A ranger was picking frost off of her bow, waiting for the ghouls to come into range. Somewhere, a war horn sounded; among his forces or those of the enemy, Kael knew not. The mage reached out with numb hands balled into fists, searching for some last vestige of power he could harness, some spell he could afford.  
  
His face contorting in pain, he raised his arms into the air, as if the very clouds above would be moved to pity. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for what he was sure was the last time, familiar red lightning danced in the prince's hair and eyes. Then, when he thought the first of the enemy ranks had drawn near enough, he opened his hands and cried out.  
  
A pillar of flame erupted among the undead, throwing that area into confusion. The greater Scourge pressed on, unfazed. The fire glowed dim behind the still-falling snow, powerful in its desperation, but not powerful enough to save a handful of dying elves.  
  
His strength spent, Kael collapsed for a moment, his chest heaving in agony. He was sore all over, unable to move of his own accord. He could only kneel there, in the snow, awaiting doom.  
  
Someone lifted him up, pleaded with him to fight. He raised his head, watching the fray. A thin volley of arrows flew haphazardly into the steadily advancing swarm of bodies. Here and there, swordsmen made a few well-dealt slashes at the enemy, downing this horror or that before they succumbed to the sheer numbers of the damned.  
  
On the Scourge came, and one by one, the Blood Elves fell.  
  
There were a few dozen of them now – a failing wall of swordsmen, a tiny pocket of healers and spellcasters, and the ranger Kael had seen earlier. They were being pressed farther and farther back, tighter and tighter against the coast.  
  
It was too much. There was no escape.  
  
"Fall back," Kael yelled above the storm and the battle, fighting to raise himself once more to his feet. "Into the sea! The Blood Elves shall not become the Lich King's slaves. They'll not take us here!"  
  
He forced his legs to move, slowly, making himself wade defiantly into the freezing waters. His soldiers followed him, loyal even to their deaths. Some were cut down before they reached the shoreline, while others escaped their pursuers into the frigid waves.  
  
It was cold, so very cold. Kael moved on, refusing to yield to the growing numbness in his lower body. It crept up his legs, over his torso, even to his shoulders. Still he would not stop. Into the sea, where Arthas and his necromancers could not make use of his corpse.  
  
Kael felt very suddenly as though he was going to faint. Black shapes had appeared out of the roaring surf, impossibly huge. Ships! They were being rescued... but by whom? Lost in his confusion, the elven prince was swept up by a wave, and his legs lost the sea floor. He was reeling, spinning, fighting to keep afloat.  
  
He was near to one of the ships now, and he could see humanoid forms leaning over the edge, casting out, hurling nets into the water. They were fishing, fishing for elves...  
  
As Kael passed out, a vision of Arthas appeared, sneering into his vacant eyes.

* * *

Sylvanas' footsteps seemed deafening in the dark silence of the corridor. Her boots were thunderheads, heralding new storms into undisturbed skies. Her eyes shone like fallen stars, omens of coming danger.  
  
The catacombs had existed beneath the city long before the city fell beneath the earth. Tombs of kings and heroes were everywhere, generations of human royalty sleeping restfully in their coffins, undisturbed by the cataclysm that had shaken the world of the living. To a necromancer, this place would be a paradise, a plentiful field begging to be harvested. Yet, mindful of her own painful existence, Sylvanas could not bring herself to raise even a single warrior. Envy was for the living – hers was a different sin.  
  
She reached the 'crypt', though in the context of the veritable necropolis that was the Undercity, the word held little meaning. This was the crypt fiends' lair, the dark place where the undead spiders kept their residence. It was also where prisoners were interrogated, as most of the unfortunates possessed a keen arachnophobia, and spider webs and pincers were most useful in extracting information.  
  
Technically, the spiders were not the Nerubian soldiers Ner'zhul had long ago raised beneath the icy mountains of Northrend; though their bodies belonged to that race of arachnids, in mind and spirit, the crypt fiends were of the same cursed race as all the Forsaken; they were elves. Undead elven women, or banshees, could shed their ghostly forms in order to inhabit the body of another. These 'fiends' were the results of countless sister warriors who had given their lives a second time in order to provide needed versatility to the Forsaken army. Possession was costly, but rewarding – Sylvanas now commanded all the varying forces that Arthas had at his disposal, if in fewer numbers.  
  
The fiends had used their webs to fasten the hapless Kel'thuzad to one of the crypt's many honeycombed walls. The lich did not writhe, as a living prisoner might at being held fast while gigantic spiders scurried around him. He squirmed occasionally against his webs, testing the strength of his prison, but he seemed unmoved by the skittering fiends.  
  
But he could not fool Sylvanas. In life she had been a skilled tracker, her elven senses acute and alert. Since death she had only improved in that area, converted by Ner'zhul into the perfect hunter. She could track a single enemy for days, if she desired... and she could smell the fear that permeated Kel'thuzad. For whatever reason, the lich could not bear the thought of dying.  
  
"Where is the Scourge hiding?" she asked calmly. The lich laughed at her.  
  
"I will tell nothing to the dreadlords' bitch!" Kel'thuzad spat. Sylvanas sighed.  
  
"Where are they?" she repeated.  
  
"Even if I knew, I would not tell you." He grinned. "I was alone when you caught me, was I not? Your banshees, keen trackers all, could not find an entire base, and you ask me where to find it?" His glowing eyes darkened. "I know no more than you where they are, and I don't care."  
  
"I'm afraid I believe you, Kel'thuzad." Though he still stunk of fear, Sylvanas could not detect the scent of deceit on his body. A probe of his mind brought her to a similar conclusion.  
  
"You're... afraid?" The Dark Ranger rolled her eyes. The poor fool did not understand.  
  
"You can't tell me anything more, and so you've outlived your usefulness," she said to him, relishing the look of understanding and renewed terror that crept over his face. "Atheesha," she said to an abomination who stood near the door, "you may kill him." The possessed giant grinned with two of its many mouths and lifted a large, cleaver-like axe from the crypt floor and taking a hulking step towards the prisoner.  
  
"Wait!" The lich called out as she turned her back. She looked over her shoulder at him. The abomination halted. Seeing that he had stalled his execution, he hurried to speak before she changed her mind again. "I can give you information! I know... I know that Arthas rules the humans here! Their leader, in Dalaran! He's undead!"  
  
"I'll make a note of that. Atheesha? _Now_, kill him."  
  
"No! You... don't _want_ to be killing me!" Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, but mentally halted the abomination again.  
  
"You are gambling, now, lich, and I should tell you I detest games of chance. Explain to me why I shouldn't kill you, and make it fast. My patience wears thin."  
  
"Of course... My Lady." The lich was visibly forcing himself to relax, to stay cool. "In Quel'thalas, the Sunwell stands – corrupted, but not destroyed. By its power was I born, the very day you, to, were raised."  
  
"I know all this, Kel'thuzad."  
  
"Yes, Sylvanas. But now you will know more. As it was that corrupted power that birthed me, it is from the Well that I continue to draw my strength. If you kill me, the corrupted Well will have nothing to feed, and in time, it will overflow with the Lich King's energies."  
  
"Impossible," Sylvanas hissed, but the lich continued, thankful to have at last captured her attention.  
  
"Arthas planned to reenergize the Well, and in fact, that was my task, before my apprehension. It will take him time to find another mage of my abilities to do it for him, time enough for you to forge some plan, perhaps."  
  
She knew that he was playing on her fears, happy to have struck two things dear to her heart: her love for her fallen homeland, and her hatred of Arthas.  
  
"But if you kill me now," he was saying, "the pool will begin to fill again almost immediately. In mere months, Arthas will have a great new fount of magical power – enough to fuel whatever he desires." Kel'thuzad was pleading now. "Let me live. I can show you what he plans to do!"  
  
"Be silent," Sylvanas. "I grow tired of your whining." The lich's shoulder's slackened beneath the webbing of his prison. He prepared himself for death. "I will spare you, but only until the Sunwell is destroyed, and of now more use to Arthas."  
  
"You would destroy the heart of your people?" The prisoner seemed shocked at the woman's sheer unscrupulousness. She faced him with a cold and dispassionate stare.  
  
"The heart of my people is as dead as I am," she said. "The abomination that has replaced the Sunwell is nothing but the headstone. The sooner it is destroyed, the sooner my kin may rest in peace."  
  
She gave a look around the room, nodding once at the collection of spiders, corpses, and ghosts. All were her sisters, and all had once called themselves elves. Now they were mere shadows – Forsaken.  
  
The Dark Lady turned, then, and vanished into the darkness of the corridor.

* * *


	3. Chapter II

"Empire of Death" By Forever Jake  
  
Chapter 2

* * *

Kael awoke feeling groggy, lethargic, as though he had had a short night's rest after the longest imaginable day, and with supper the night before. Every part of him ached, from his fingertips to his knees, to his spine and his chest, to the pit of his stomach and the back of his skull. There was another intense pain, as well, that struck at him from outside his spent body; it was as though he was starving to death and devouring something far too hot for his mouth, all at the same time. He was decidedly numb, as well. He could feel nothing... nothing but the pain.  
  
At first, he felt he could not even open his eyes; presently, as he became more and more aware of the soft blue light more and more invading his brain, he forced himself to open them. He lay, naked, in a small chamber of a cave, its exterior location indiscernible. It did not feel cold enough to be Northrend, and in fact, he realized, he felt quite warm. He would have felt very comfortable were it now for his throbbing pain. Even the air that cycled through his lungs tasted strangely familiar – yet at the same time, somehow changed from the last time he had tasted it.  
  
He struggled to sit up, wincing as new waves of the incredible pain shot up and down his body. He finally managed, bracing his back against the cave wall. He looked around now, taking in the whole of the room. An exit to another chamber was visible, but too far away to crawl to in his weakened condition. Besides, he seemed to be alone at the moment, unthreatened except by his own pain.  
  
After a time, his pain and lethargy overtook him, and he succumbed to sleep once more.

* * *

When he was awoken the second time it was by a small splash of water on his face, not as cold as ice and therefore painful, but cool, like a fresh spring, and refreshing. Kael realized that the chamber had become stiflingly warm while he'd slept, and the cool water was a welcome reprieve. It was darker as well – though there was no visible opening to the outside, sunlight yet found its way in during the day, and now, apparently, that sun had set.  
  
The pain in his body was also gone, save for a growing hunger in his neglected stomach, and although his mental agony remained, he was now able to move without wincing. He stretched and opened his eyes slowly, banishing the remainder of his lethargy. He blinked in surprise when he saw the face of his visitor peering down at him.  
  
"Arthas!" he gasped. He shielded himself with his hands, his eyes darting to either side, seeking a weapon, but finding none. Arthas set his now- empty cup down on the cave floor.  
  
"Be at peace, brother Kael. If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it in Northrend, or during one of my hundred visits while you slept."  
  
"Then this is not Northrend?" Kael was confused as to what Arthas wanted, but pleased that his senses had not failed him. So this was not Northrend, after all. Then where...  
  
"No, brother Kael, we are far from there. We are in fact near the borders of your ancient homeland, Quel'thalas."  
  
_Quel'thalas_. The Realm Eternal, the place of his birth. After so many months, so many lands and masters, he was home.  
  
"How long have I slept?" he asked.  
  
"It has been three days since the capture of you and your people in the North. They slept, like you, through most of the journey; a combination of some modest spellwork and their own physical and spiritual exhaustion."  
  
"How did we get here so fast? It took my people over a month to cross the frozen seas."  
  
"I, thankfully, have more efficient modes of transportation at my disposal. I believe you have the frost wyrm, Sapphiron, to thank for your passage here."  
  
"The undead dragon?" Kael looked incredulous. "I have enough trouble believing those things can fly, let alone cross an ocean with passengers." Arthas smiled, handing him a large black bundle.  
  
"Put this on. I'm afraid your old cloak was far too stained with Illidan's magics. We had to remove you from it before it killed you. This robe will serve you better." The mention of his former master brought back to Kael's mind keen memory of the last months' battles. The elf's face tightened in distrust as he set the garment down.  
  
"What do you want from me?" Kael asked slowly. Arthas sighed.  
  
"I had hoped we could circumvent all this hostility, Kael. Illidan is dead, and as tragic as that must be for you, it means my quarrel with you and your people is over. I was hoping that we might be able to aid one another."  
  
It was very dark now in the chamber, and even Kael's elven eyes could not quite make out Arthas' features amid the shadow._ I must see his face before I trust him._ A familiar spell came to his mind, one he had used many times before. He pictured in his mind a single flame, willing that flame into being in his palm. He could feel it sparking, beginning to grow...  
  
He screamed in renewed agony, doubling over and dropping Arthas' robe on the ground. No flame appeared in his palm.  
  
"You'll have to take it easy on the magic for awhile, Kael," Arthas said, retrieving the robe and draping it over his companion. It felt surprisingly cool on his back, ameliorating as the water had been. "Remember, Kil'jaeden and Illidan are no longer fueling your endeavors. Until I can procure a new source for you to draw from, any spell you try will only bring you pain, as this one has." Kael took the robe from his back and put it on.  
  
"Now, then, for some light." Arthas snapped his fingers loudly, and an acolyte entered the chamber carrying a dim torch. She placed it in a narrow alcove in the wall, and left.  
  
Arthas motioned at the alcove with his hand, and almost instantly, a thin layer of ice spread over it, reflecting the light within one hundredfold.  
  
Kael looked up at his savior's face, taking in his countenance carefully. When the elf's excruciation had subsided, he smiled weakly.  
  
"Thank you, Arthas." The Death Knight nodded in acknowledgement. Kael swallowed, collecting his thoughts. "It would appear that I am in your debt. You have spared my life, saved me and my people from certain death, and aided me in coping with my... affliction." He paused, and then finished, "The Blood Elves are yours to command, King Arthas."  
  
"I accept your service, Prince Kael'thas. The Scourge has much use for your people, as you will see." He snapped his fingers again, and the acolyte entered again, carrying a large metal tray. This she set down between the two men before disappearing again. "You are famished," Arthas said, reminding Kael of his all-to-real hunger. "Eat." With this, the Death Knight lifted the lid from the tray, revealing the dish inside.  
  
The creature appeared to have once been a pig or boar of some sort, though it was barely recognizable as such. Its skin was black with large purple splotches, and it's eyes, though dead, glowed a dim scarlet.  
  
"What happened to it?" Kael breathed, trying to ignore the noxious odor that was rising from the steaming dish.  
  
"We caught it floating in the Sunwell," Arthas replied. "The Well's corruption has killed it, cooked it to death." Kael held back the urge to vomit, images flooding his mind of his familiar Sunwell, tainted, this unfortunate creature floating in it, drowning in its own bile.  
  
"Eat," Arthas whispered. "I have left you your life, but your soul must feel my touch all the same. I must have some assurance of your oath. Eat, and you shall truly be my servant."  
  
Kael sat, green-faced, his eyes focused steadily on the awful thing before him. This corruption, this evil, should never be allowed inside his body. It would fulfill his hunger, but leave him far more empty than he had ever been.  
  
Yet despite his revulsion, his hunger – for food and for magic – won over it. After mere seconds, Kael lowered his face to the defiled meat and gorged himself.

* * *

Sylvanas sat alone at her desk, twirling the runed dagger in her hands. She had given Kel'thuzad a stony face, but she was bothered by what he had said – by both the information he had shared, and by the readiness with which he had seemed to dispense it. Though she had never held the lich in high regard, she knew of one outstanding quality which he did possess: loyalty. Through everything that she had seen, in good and bad moments of the war, he had never wavered in his loyalty to Arthas and the Frozen Throne.  
  
That was why it didn't make sense for him to have cracked so easily. He had never before seemed to fear death, not if it was for the Lich King's cause; his mortal life had ended such, a sacrifice to darken Arthas' soul. He had also perished many times in battle since his rebirth at the Sunwell, so why...  
  
_The Sunwell..._  
  
Somehow it all came back to the Sunwell, to the lich's failed quest, whatever it was. Sylvanas knew enough to guess that Kel'thuzad had not been totally honest, despite the desperation which drove him to speak out. There was something more, some deeper danger the skeletal mage _had _to be concealing. His loyalty had to run that deep, at least...  
  
"Sylvanas," Varimathras intoned, standing at the doorway of the study. He was staring at the dagger... Sylvanas quickly replaced the blade within the drawer.  
  
"I have told you to address me as 'My Lady', have I not?"  
  
"Yes, my Lady. I was wondering if I might speak to you about our prisoner... the lich, Kel'thuzad."_ It was as if the brute was psychic.  
_  
"I see you were listening in after all." The demon blushed. "Well? Speak."  
  
"I wonder if he was being entirely truthful. I have always thought the leader of the Cult of the Damned to have a greater loyalty to his master, the Lich King. It does not strike me as right for him to give in to you so easily."  
  
"I had been thinking the same thing, Dreadlord. I've never seen him so... squeamish." She paused before continuing her thoughts out loud. "I only wonder if this isn't related to the Lich King's regression."  
  
"Regression, my Queen?"  
  
"The weakening of Ner'zhul's grip on this land, on all of us. You must have noticed it, even you Dreadlords were under his thumb to some extent. Now..." She trailed off.  
  
"Ah, yes. It was this 'slackening' which allowed my brothers and I to attempt our little coup."  
  
"And allowed me my own ascension," she finished. "I wonder if Ner'zhul's lost his grip on Kel'thuzad, as well... though if he can't even control his closest supporters, I can't imagine he's got much power left at all."  
  
"We should move against them now, my Lady, before Arthas can reach his precious master and save him."  
  
"If Arthas was going to do anything, he'd have done it by now; we've got our own position here to worry about at the moment. The Scourge can wait – those humans at Dalaran are our primary threat right now."  
  
"Yes, my Lady. That's actually something I wanted to ask you about. In his blurted confession, Kel'thuzad mentioned something which caught my interest."  
  
"He said many things which caught my interest, Varimathras. What are you talking about?"  
  
"Before he got under your skin about the Sunwell–" Sylvanas' eyes flashed. The Dreadlord swallowed and continued. "–he said that the leader of the humans at Dalaran is undead." There was a beat as this sunk in.  
  
"He did, didn't he," Sylvanas breathed. "That can't be good. With the Alliance on his side, Arthas can take control of this continent again without worrying about whatever powers Ner'zhul seems to have lost."  
  
"Shall I investigate this, my Queen?"  
  
"Yes, and quickly. Find out what you can. If we have an assassination to perform, I want it done while we still have the chance."

* * *


	4. Chapter III

"Empire of Death"  
By Forever Jake

Chapter 3

* * *

The woman known as Deirdre Jarens was dead. She wondered, sometimes, whether she had always been, or whether there had been a time when she could have been considered among the living. If such a time had occurred at all, she certainly did not recall it, and it had long ago passed.

She had been born the child of Markos and Ellyn Jarens, a pair of destitute humans of no renown. These peasants she did not consider her parents, however, for she had never known them. When she had been but an infant, their family home had come aflame; only she had survived. It was only after many years that she had learned it was arson.

The Jarens family had lived in a village on the fringes of Quel'thalas, at a time when racial hatreds were common. Orcs had ravaged the land twice already, and many still were loose in the country; trolls and goblins wandered the land without fear or consequence. Humans and elves, allies of historic loyalty, were beginning to feel the first of many tensions to come.

Quel'thalas, perhaps more than any other nation of the Alliance, had felt firsthand the wrath of the Horde. Many had fallen in defense of the Realm Eternal, and the human kingdoms to the south and west had been powerless to stop the assault. Only when dissension in their own ranks became apparent did the orcish armies leave the elves and their broken home.

Many survivors blamed the human kings and their pettiness for failing to protect their friends in arms. Reason was discarded; vengeance was taken without thought.

And one night, the village in which the Jarens lived took up torches, and Ellyn and Markos lost their lives.

Priests would come soon after, calming the populace and chastising them for their actions. Deirdre would be found, and surrendered to those who would become her only family – the Kirin Tor.

Dalaran's magocratic ruing council was ever enigmatic, cloaked in mystery, and so she became when she grew into adulthood. The name of Deirdre Jarens was never spoken by human lips, nor seen in writing.

One man only would become her friend, for even her patrons had little time for an orphaned peasant girl. One man only would shed his anonymity and become the father she had never known. Only one mage on the Kirin Tor would take her into his black heart.

His name, when he revealed it to her, was Kel'thuzad.

From him she learned how to master and control the gift which had saved her life the night her parents burned. Her spellcraft perfected in far less time than most, and with the brightening of her mind, her heart darkened to match her mentor's. Contorted by hate, she now possessed the means to avenge her parents' deaths.

One day, Kel'thuzad left. He traveled north, towards some unseen goal, and he left his foster daughter behind. He promised he would one day return. She swore that if he did not, she would follow him.

On that night Deirdre returned to the village of her birth. The township had grown, and her parents' ruined dwelling had been built over and housed a new family. The elves lived in happiness and peace, secure with their human allies gone from their lands, and from their lives.

That night, Deirdre performed one spell. She whispered it in the silent breeze that swept over the hilltop at the edge of the village, where she knelt, hiding. As she watched, the air darkened in the center of the town square, and then blackened into acrid smoke. A pillar of flame appeared, expanding outwards to consume every structure within the village.

Then she turned and left. She would hear reports later, confirming what she had known in the moment she cast the spell. There had been no survivors. Every victim had been elven.

Months passed, then years. And after a time, Deirdre pointed her feet northward and began to walk. She did not get far. Plague had come to Lordaeron, and rumors of war floated on the winds like the first bitter flakes of a long winter. And with the return of the tides of darkness came Kel'thuzad.

Her mentor was not as she recalled him. He had shed the violet colors of the Kirin Tor and now wore black robes lined with silver, spidery runes. She could sense the change in his soul, as well, and when she pressed him he told her his tale.

A voice had long called to him, and at last he had journeyed north to seek its source. His quarry he had found at the top of the world, encased in snow and ice. It was this entity who had fathered the Plague which gripped Lordaeron. To Kel'thuzad, who would become his favored servant, had the wintery god then made known his name: Ner'zhul, the Lich King… master of the dread army that would be known as the Scourge.

Then Ner'zhul had presented Kel'thuzad with a task: spread his worship to the living, who would in turn succumb to his Plague. The wizard swore to oblige… and Deirdre became the first convert into the Cult of the Damned.

For many months she and her adopted father worked, attracting worshipers and employing them to spread the Plague-bearing grain that would desolate the country. The Scourge came, then, a veritable swarm of walking dead… the arm of the Lich King himself.

Deirdre and Kel'thuzad paused and watched the fruits of the labors evolve. More and more territory was taken. Kel'thuzad gave his life and regained it, reanimated as a skeletal lich to better serve his new master. Quel'thalas, and then all Lordaeron fell before the Plague and the Scourge. And into new life was born the woman who would come to embody everything Deirdre hated.

Sylvanas Windrunner had been, briefly, a thorn in the Scourge's side in the battles of Quel'thalas, a Ranger General charged with defending the Realm Eternal from the sort of destruction it had faced in the time of the Horde. Sylvanas had fallen before Arthas, the Lich King's favored Death Knight, and instead of an honorable death, Arthas had summoned her back as an undead banshee, a ghost cursed to hunt those she had loved for the glory of the Scourge.

Sylvanas would prove a most deadly enemy to Arthas and the armies of the dead, however. Over time, the energies the Lich King had spent in his war began to fade, and with it, his control of his minions. Sylvanas reclaimed her mind and her freedom, and had aided enemies of the Scourge in ousting Arthas from his position of power in Lordaeron. Arthas returned to his master's side, far away in the North, and Sylvanas proved her treachery had only begun.

The remaining Scourge forces in the area, after Sylvanas' bid for power, fell under Deirdre's own master, Kel'thuzad. As the war began to shift in Sylvanas' favor, Kel'thuzad discovered his master's voice was silent in his mind. The lich resolved to travel to Northrend to receive the advice of Arthas or Ner'zhul, whichever he could find.

By her own magical link to the undead mage, Deirdre tracked the progress of his journey, leading the Scourge's losing war in his absence. It was upon Kel'thuzad's return journey that he was caught – by none other than Sylvanas herself.

It was then Deirdre's turn, in desperation, to seek out the master of the Scourge, but Arthas found her first. Arthas, now in full possession of the Lich King's power, had assured the woman that her mentor would be recovered safely, and she had nodded in agreement…

Deirdre _would_ see her father again, even if it meant fighting her way, alone, through Sylvanas' fortress. This she swore as she nursed Kael's wounds. Arthas had made her promise the Blood Mage's safety, but though the bastard elf was sleeping thanklessly through her care, it would be another of his race who would feel the wrath of Deirdre Jarens.

* * *

The commander of the Alliance of Dalaran stood in the center of a wide amphitheater, his back to his camp. The crater sloped up and away from him in all directions, seemingly radiating from him. This was his country, his domain. Many men had laid claim to this place over the generations, but today, to only one did it belong. Today, Edwin Perenolde was king.

The aging commander had once ruled a land not far from this very spot, called Alterac by those who called it anything at all. It had not been a large kingdom, nor had it possessed a powerful military. It had not been rich in gold or oil; but it had been his. Baron Perenolde, great grandson of a past King's nephew, had ruled his Alterac with a soft hand, adored by his people… but that time was gone now, separated from the present by years and ordeals.

The Horde had come, in that time, to challenge humanity's rule, and Alterac had found itself defenseless before the coming war. When it became necessary, Perenolde abdicated his throne and surrendered before the might of his enemies, saving the lives of his kinsmen and destroying his honor.

He believed he had saved Alterac – but he had only damned it in a different fashion.

When the war was done and the Horde repulsed, the other kings of the Alliance had come to punish him for his cowardice – cowardice because he did not resign his people to death. He surrendered himself to his former allies, and accepted their sentence… exile.

He left the lands of Alterac and Lordaeron, departing for the twenty-five years demanded by his arbitrators. When he returned at last, he found it was not the kingdom he remembered.

War again had come to the lands of the Alliance. Armies of the dead ravaged the country, killing indiscriminately. Soldiers and civilians alike fell before the shadows of their dark masters.

Worse, still, than this was the realization that he was once again on the wrong side of the conflict.

The bitterness of his exile had driven him to roam, and after a time, he had found himself in the bleak and bitter North. There he had found a new master, and a new life. He had become a Death Knight, a champion of the Lich King, Ner'zhul.

It was Ner'zhul who commanded the Scourge that threatened Lordaeron, and despite his desires to aid his people, his master bid him cleanse the lands of his birth. Anonymous among the swarms of the dead, Perenolde had hid behind a suit of armor and a runed sword, dying in his heart alongside every one of his people he murdered.

Then, like a summer storm vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, the Scourge retreated. Perenolde could feel Ner'zhul's grip on him fading, and the vast multitudes of the dead fled back to Northrend. The Lich King's attention had been diverted elsewhere, and in the chaos, Lordaeron – and Perenolde – slipped through his fingers.

As soon as he realized his newfound freedom, he sought out the survivors of his race who still fought the lingering undead. He learned of the enigmatic Dark Ranger, Sylvanas Windrunner, and of the demonic Dreadlords, each of whom still commanded wings of undead forces in the kingdom. Joining with the charismatic Lord Garithos, Perenolde quickly became a hero among those who had condemned him decades before.

When Garithos fell in battle, Perenolde was unanimously chosen his successor. He was seen as a beacon of light in the dark times, a champion of the old aristocracy, one of few humans alive who could trace his family to royalty. Forgiven his crimes in wars past, he was elevated to legendary status – a future king, if there were ever again enough living subjects to be king of.

And no one knew his darkest secret, his worst crime – that he had fought alongside the very Scourge that had leveled Lordaeron, that he had been the very enemy his people hated and feared.

Garithos had struck an unlikely alliance with the elven ghost, Sylvanas, at the last battle against the Dreadlords who commanded most of the local undead forces. Since that day, however, Perenolde had decreed that the living in his realm would never again side with the walking dead. He had begun a slow, guerilla campaign against Sylvanas and her 'Forsaken', hoping to take back the shattered capitol city from her and her soulless comrades. Thus far he had failed, although progress _was _being made.

He worried, however, that the Dark Lady, as she called herself, would reveal his secret before she could be destroyed. He wore his curse well, hidden behind a mask of humanity as impenetrable as the steel helm that had his face before. He had an advantage in that, unlike most of the damned, he had never died in the first place; he had merely fallen, still living, under the Lich King's corruption. Ner'zhul's other former generals, however – including Sylvanas – could still identify him if they wished. He wondered why she had not done so sooner. Perhaps she was grateful enough for her own freedom from the Frozen Throne that she would allow him to enjoy his. Perhaps she merely wished to toy with him before shattering his newly reforged kingdom. Perhaps he had simply managed to evade her gaze thus far.

_Perhaps_…

A black cloud moved suddenly, blocking out the sun, and Perenolde shivered despite the heat, distracted from his thoughts. He watched it move across the sky, baffled at its seemingly random movements as it rose and fell in and out of eclipse with the sun. As the dark shape grew larger and nearer, he suddenly realized that it was no true cloud at all.

It was a dragon.

As the massive creature descended, Perenolde took in its features with fear. He recalled another time, long past, when he had spotted a great beast such as this one on his horizon. It had been the day that the Horde had come to claim Alterac – the day that he had shed his soul.

Far more frightening, however, was the knowledge that this beast now approaching was no living drake. The behemoth was not of the vital breed which had breathed fire and terrorized enemies of the orcs; there were many holes in its wings, and its flesh seemed to hang from its protruding bones. There was a general dim glow about the creature which seemed to signify its defeat before the powers that insisted on its continued existence, and looking at it, Perenolde could not be sure that, if not for the magic that had raised it, it would fly at all.

The dragon was a frost wyrm, a frightening war engine of the Scourge… and it had a rider, who generated equal dread in Perenolde's heart as the stranger's identity became apparent.

"Woah, Sapphiron," Arthas said, as he guided the beast to a landing near the bottom of the amphitheater.

"Prince Arthas," Perenolde gasped, "I didn't kn–"

"_King_ Arthas," the younger man corrected. "This is my kingdom now."

"King Arthas… of course, my Lord. How may I aid the Lich King?" Perenolde bowed slightly as he spoke, glancing to either side.

"There's no one to see you, Lord Perenolde, so don't worry. As angry as I am at your attempt to fill my throne, your influence on these humans is useful to me at present, so I will allow you to keep up this… _façade_."

"As you wish, my Prince… my King. How may I please the Frozen Throne?"

"The Frozen Throne is destroyed, Perenolde. The Lich King is dead or banished, I know and care not which. His order is broken, and the time for a new order has come… _my_ order."

"Ner'zhul… is gone? I am afraid I do not understand, Lord."

"It's not important that you understand. All you must know is that you serve me now, as does the entirety of the Scourge."

"What of the dissidents, my King? Sylvanas and her _Forsaken_, as she calls them?"

"That shall continue to be your task, Perenolde – but where you have failed for Ner'zhul and for yourself, now you shall succeed for me." From his belt, Arthas detached a long scabbard, which he handed to the older knight. Perenolde accepted it slowly, a confused expression playing across his face.

He drew out the blade halfway from the scabbard. It glinted brightly in the morning sun, the gold runes engraved on it dancing like embers in a hearth. Perenolde read the runes skeptically.

"_Doomsong_? What's wrong with my old Runeblade?"

"I doubt you can find it now, and it will be of no use to you if you can. It's powers have faded with the Lich King's. His covenant with you, forged with his Runeblades for his Death Knights, his chosen, is broken. I bring you this blade as a token of my new covenant with you. You shall be the first of my Dread Knights, my champion among my champions in the days to come. Beginning here, you shall retake the kingdoms that the Scourge once held, and then those that have been kept from us. Today is born the Empire that shall span the world over… _my _Empire."

"But my Lord!" Perenolde exclaimed, before he could stop himself, "I am not the knight you believe me to be. Death Knight, Dread Knight, it is all the same… and I am not that man. I do not have the heart, the will of a murderer any longer." He sighed, lifting the sword, still hanging out of its scabbard, back towards Arthas. "I'm sorry, my King… but I simply haven't the will."

Arthas laughed.

"Of course you haven't – you never did. That's why you're so perfect for your task. Ner'zhul made one mistake: he chose someone strong to be his champion, too strong… stronger than himself. Now I have destroyed him for that mistake, and his choices are mine to make over as I see fit, his failings mine to correct. You haven't the will to do this, I know… and that's why you'll do it, because you haven't the will to resist it, either."

Perenolde tried to open his mouth and object, but his lips would not part. His voice died in his throat and his limbs refused to respond. He was frozen in place, incapable of arguing with his master or even evading Arthas' gaze.

"Why do you suppose you walked this morning in this _forsaken_ place? Not because you chose to. This amphitheater is secluded, abandoned, perfect for this meeting. I chose this place, and without even realizing it, you followed my direction."

_I like this place!_ Perenolde tried to scream, but again, his mouth refused to budge.

"No, you prefer the crowd of the ruined city, where you can be seen and can relish in your status and rank. This place is far too devoid of gawkers to suit your taste… but I bid you come here, alone, and you came." Arthas turned back to his mount, and from a place just behind its head, where a saddle had been strapped, a young woman took the prince's hand and descended.

She appeared to be unarmed, and she was clothed in a hooded cloak which identified her to Perenolde as an acolyte of the Cult of the Damned, Ner'zhul's false church among the living. A single strand of raven hair fell out of the woman's hood, which obscured her face. Behind her, Arthas climbed up onto the frost wyrm's neck, into the saddle.

"Her name is Deirdre, and she shall aid you in what you are to do. At noon tomorrow, you will attack the capitol city and push Sylvanas and her rebels out for good. You will succeed, because I will it so." With that, the great undead dragon gave a mighty beat of its wings, and the King of the Scourge disappeared again into the clear morning sky, leaving his servants to ready themselves for battle.

* * *


	5. Chapter IV

"Empire of Death"  
By Forever Jake  
  
Chapter 4

* * *

"Arise, Prince Kael. We have work to do."  
  
The Blood Mage had been seated in meditation on the floor of the cave where Arthas had left him, his eyes closed, mind blank. His pain had further diminished, but he could still sense it waiting on the edge of his mind, daring him to attempt a spell. At the sound of his master's voice, the elf's eyes flew open, and he pushed himself up off of the floor with a slight groan.  
  
"My Lord," he said, bowing slightly as he rose. Arthas was standing at the entrance to the chamber.  
  
"Come," Arthas interrupted. "It is time that you saw." He extended his palm to the mage, and Kael took it.  
  
They walked slowly out of the cave; a narrow entryway served as transition between the dim inner chamber and the bright afternoon outdoors. As Kael stepped timidly out into the sunlight, his heart fluttered. _This was the land I left behind._  
  
He recognized the location. They were on a hilltop overlooking a segment of winding valley that stretched away from them to southwest. Behind them, the valley split into a series of dry canyons which became the northern edge of the Alterac Mountains, and the westernmost borders of the Realm Eternal.  
  
"Look ahead, Prince Kael. At the end of this valley, the ruins of Capitol City lie." Images came, unbidden, to Kael's mind: Garithos. Vashj. Sylvanas.  
  
_Sylvanas._  
  
"Yes, Kael. The ruined city is now Sylvanas' domain – for the present. After you left, she used your late commander, Garithos, to oust the other undead from the area, and then turned on Garithos himself. His successor, Sir Perenolde, rules over the remaining humans at Dalaran."  
  
"Perenolde? The Death Knight?" Kael had heard much of the former general of the Scourge.  
  
"_Dread_ Knight, now. Yes, Perenolde and his humans belong to me now. It is by them that I shall take back the Capitol City and be rid of Sylvanas forever."  
  
"And what shall I do, Lord?"  
  
"That is the second time you have called me 'Lord', Kael. While I certainly prefer that to 'Prince', it is not my title."  
  
"I see, master. You would prefer that I address you as... King?"  
  
"Yes. This is, after all my kingdom. I expect nothing less than the utmost respect from my subjects, even my favored ones."  
  
"Of course... King Arthas. It's just that... well..."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I'm simply not used to this business of Kings at all."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"In Quel'thalas, there was no one ruling figure. We had a council of Lords and Princes which decided all the matters of state, and three Speakers which directed the council."  
  
"Where you one of these Lords and Princes, Kael?" The elven mage blushed slightly.  
  
"No, master. I had not yet passed the age requirement for the council when my kingdom fell. I had planned to..." His voice fell suddenly silent. He dropped his gaze to the ground.  
  
"To what, Kael?" Arthas goaded him. Kael swallowed and forced himself to look Arthas in the eye.  
  
"I had planned to begin serving on the council when my tour of duty was completed... but I was still away when the Scourge... destroyed everything."  
  
"I see." Arthas paused, and then said, "I won't pretend I am sorry for your people, Kael. I did what had to be done to ensure my own victory. Do you hate me for it?" _He is testing me_, Kael realized. He tightened his jaw.  
  
"No," he answered at last. "Had I been present, I would not have been able to stop you. I would have died among my people... now I find myself alive, and in your service." He sighed again. "I, like you, will do what must be done to achieve my aims. I aim for my people to survive and preserve our race, and as that requires siding with you, my would-be enemy, I will do as you ask without question. I have eaten of your tainted feast, Arthas, and I bear now the scars of my own corruption, not yours."  
  
Arthas grinned. "Good."  
  
"What do you will... my King?" Kael now wore an expression of confusion. "It would seem that I am powerless. Though your own powers have healed me, I fear I cannot return your aid as of yet."  
  
"I cannot restore you completely, Kael, and neither can Time itself. One power only can return to you what you lost... the fountain that first entrusted itself to you."  
  
"The Sunwell?"  
  
"Yes, the Sunwell. After this land belongs once more to its rightful King, I shall turn to Silvermoon and the near-empty well it guards. Then you shall regain your powers in full, Prince Kael; this I promise you."  
  
"And for now?"  
  
"For now, all I require is that you stay alive. I have no need of your services, save that." Arthas was staring out at the valley, towards the Capitol City and his unseen enemy, Sylvanas. "Go to your blood cousin, the Dark Lady. She, like you, has some destiny in Silvermoon; this much I have foreseen. Find her, and ensure that her interests do not further jeopardize our own."  
  
"If that is your wish, my King." Kael's tone was reluctant.  
  
"It is. I will watch over your people, and in Silvermoon you shall reunite with them, and both of your curses shall be lifted."  
  
"What if Sylvanas refuses my company? How can I know she will trust me?"  
  
"I know she will not; kin though you are, her disdain for the living will come between you. She will not suspect my hand, however, and she will accompany you to the Sunwell."  
  
"How can you know this?" Arthas smiled.  
  
"Let it be enough for now that I know. Now run along, little Prince."  
  
"But my King!" Kael protested. "I am crippled without my magic! Am I to trust my safety to the Dark Lady?"  
  
"No, Kael," Arthas replied, his voice smooth and parental. "You are to trust your safety to me."  
  
Kael was out of pleas; the conversation was over. He could not answer Arthas' godlike promises, for there was no answer to give. He would do as his King demanded, for his people's sake, even if that meant his own life was forfeit.  
  
The elf sat, alone, on the hillside, long after Arthas had left him. He sat and waited as time, in its endless enigma, swirled around him as unreadable as arcane stars and as impenetrable as opaque water. He did not understand why it was necessary that he travel with Sylvanas, or why the prospect of their reunion filled him with such dread. She was not his sister, his lover, nor his friend. In life, he had scarcely known her; in death, she could hardly even be considered his own race. She was a stranger, an interloper, unconnected to him in any way.  
  
Why then should the image of her, dead but living, chill him so?

* * *

Deirdre crossed the field atop a proud, white-haired steed, her own dark locks accompanying her twilight-colored robes in strange contrast to the horse's bright appearance. Stranger still was her disposition, for her usual brooding features had been replaced for the moment with some that better matched her mount than her clothing. She felt ecstatic, nearly giddy, her grim inclination to dwell on the darkest side of her situation temporarily forgotten.  
  
Battle always made her cheerful.  
  
Beside her, in fitting juxtaposition, rode a rather melancholy Sir Perenolde. He was clad in his familiar Death Knight's armor, Doomsong hanging ominously from his belt. His soldiers were not alarmed by his garb, for they had seen him in such regalia many times. Most believed he had stolen it from a body, perhaps some Scourge general he had slain in battle. No one knew the truth.  
  
The dark and stormy Knight, as Deirdre thought of him, seemed little impressed with his new status and sword, and less still with his mission. His low spirits rivaled Deirdre's usual personality in their sheer gloominess. She didn't quite understand his reluctance to destroy a foe that long accosted him, to remove a large threat to his people, and to end for the immediate future the bloodshed in the region. Sylvanas seemed to be at the center of all his troubles – why then did the prospect of crushing her make him so sad? Deirdre simply did not understand.  
  
She decided she didn't care – after all, there was going to be a battle. And battles always made her cheerful. Besides, if he wanted to spend his morning in the doldrums, that was his choice. She even fancied it made him rather handsome.  
  
The pair had reached the front of the army. The force had been assembled hastily but carefully; Perenolde, despite he preoccupation, was no fool when it came to war, and he knew how to rally soldiers. They commanded several large battalions of mounted knights, as well as a substantial infantry. Rarer were spellcasters, as the already short ranks of wizards, sorceresses and priests in the kingdom had met with substantial casualties with the consecutive falls of Silvermoon and Dalaran. Though the Alliance had managed to retake the latter city, the preliminary defeats had made significant dents in the number of mages available to fight.  
  
In this respect, the Alliance today possessed a fresh advantage. Strategically interspersed among groups of warriors were a large number of men and women in black cloaks that matched Deirdre's own garb. Deployed in groups of two or three accompanying squads of human warriors, the necromancers were charged with bolstering the Alliance army with anything either side managed to kill. Word had been spread among the living soldiers identifying the black mages and what they would do. While the majority of the troops appeared uneasy at working alongside such spellcasters, Deirdre did not doubt that they would honor their allegiance to Perenolde and ask their questions after the fighting.  
  
If there were still people to ask, of course. Deirdre wondered what would befall the humans once they had lived out their usefulness to Arthas. She hoped it involved death.  
  
Death made her cheerful as well. She supposed it was death that made battle so enjoyable.  
  
Today she was going to see much of both.

* * *


	6. Chapter V

"Empire of Death"  
By Forever Jake  
  
Chapter 5

* * *

__

_Sylvanas_, the voice called, echoing through the endless tunnels of her mind like footsteps in a long, dark corridor. _Sylvanas, my child_, it said. The ranger stirred slightly in her sleep, one ear bending slightly beneath the weight of her head against her pillow, but did not wake.  
  
_I know you can hear me, Sylvanas_. She stirred again, rolling over to her other side, as though seeking to escape some bright light being shined in her face. Her eyes remained shut.  
  
_Stop running, my child. Stop and listen. I have much to tell you_. In her sleep, her hand found the pillow and pulled it over her head. The voice did not stop.  
  
_You have run too long from me_, it cooed, _always in a hurry to leave me_. She kicked mindlessly, her foot striking the wooden footboard of the bed. _You know I miss you so_.  
  
An image was appearing in her mind. She squeezed her eyes tighter, as though she did not want to see it. It was a green hill, and on the hill she stood – not her dead, gray form, but young and vibrant, bright and alive. She turned to look over the top of the hill, and her mind's eye followed her younger self's gaze. There, in the valley below, stretched a great city – Silvermoon.  
  
Proud towers scraped the sky as proud elven men and women moved about on their daily travels beneath them. Trees framed in the metropolis at every turn, creating an illusion of wilderness. The sun shone down, unwavering, upon the city and its people.  
  
She blinked.  
  
In an instant, the vision changed. The sun turned a desolate gray, dark clouds clustering around it. Loud, booming thunder replaced the sounds of wildlife and civilization as rain fell, splattering off of the towers and drenching the people below. Sylvanas' stomach turned as she waited for what she knew was coming.  
  
Nothing happened. The sun flitted in and out from behind the thunderheads, sprinkling the downpour with shifting bars of light. Below, the people smiled and laughed – a sun shower, of all things! They were supposed to be omens of change, someone said, and another joked about there perhaps being an end to that troublesome little war to the west.  
  
After a few moments, the clouds vanished, perhaps as quickly as they had arisen. The sun returned in full force, and puddles evaporated from the ground.  
  
The citizens, having escaped being wet or endured it for a few minutes, went about their business, believing that the worst part of their day was over. Sylvanas stared on, motionless.  
  
She remembered how it had happened that day. Death had not come with dark skies or cruel thunder. It had come with cheerful, harmless sunlight and merciful summer breezes. It had come in the form of a grinning, blonde knight in armor that shimmered in the sun.  
  
As she watched from her vantage point on the hill, Arthas emerged from an opening in one section of trees. He smiled.  
  
Sylvanas fought the urge to vomit. She squeezed her eyes tightly, but the voice cut once again through her mind, cold and clear.  
  
_You must watch_, it said, and Sylvanas made herself obey.  
  
She made herself watch as the Death Knight raised his sword and cried his foul cry. She made herself obey as the impossible numbers of ghouls and crypt fiends surged out of the forest, plowing over soldiers and civilians alike in their bloodlust. She made herself watch as Arthas climbed the hill where she stood firing arrows into the fray, lifting his cursed blade and piercing her chest with it.  
  
Writhing in her bed, she subconsciously put a fingertip to the wound beneath her nightgown.  
  
She watched herself fall to the ground, her bow leaving her dead hands. She watched herself rise again and descend the hill into the fray. She watched herself murder dozens of her own people, her own brothers and cousins, while he stood atop the hill, looking down and laughing.  
  
The vision began to darken. Tears were streaming down her face, soaking the sheets. _Remember what was done_, she heard the voice say. _Remember what was done, so that it can be undone.  
_  
The vision had darkened to a tiny circle, where she could see the vague outline of the Sunwell. Its waters had already begun to darken, the foul magics of the runed sword taking their toll.  
  
_Go there_, the voice said. _Go there, and your people's fates may be reversed... if there is time_. She kicked out again and again, as though in the grip of some agonizing seizure. Her bare foot struck the wood footboard, scratching and denting it. It bent in, crumpling beneath her maddened strength.  
  
As it snapped in two, the vision vanished and her eyes opened.  
  
She sat on the bed, breathing heavily, for a long time, the vision and the voice moving in and out of her thoughts. She touched her face, feeling the damp lines of the tears she had shed.  
  
It was the first time she had cried since her death. She hadn't thought she could cry, until now. Perhaps she couldn't. Perhaps this, too, was some strange dream, from which she would soon wake to find her usual nightmarish existence waiting for her.  
  
After a time, her breathing slowed again, and she fell back into the sheets with a final sigh. Her eyes closed, the image of the Sunwell returning, unbidden, to her mind. The voice, too, echoed softly in her ear, like the dying words of a mother or sister.  
  
_Go_, it said.  
  
_Go_.  
  
_Go_.

* * *

Arthas crossed the threshold silently, his cloak disguising him as naught but a shadow as he ducked under the top of the doorway and into a large room. The Undercity was still cloaked in darkness despite the sunlight above; that was an advantage in being underground. Arthas feared no detection. Most undead were by instinct nocturnal, and he could deal with the one or two he expected to encounter.  
  
It had been many weeks since he had been to this place. In his absence, Sylvanas had made the Undercity flourish. It was now a veritable paradise for the dead, a thousand interconnecting chambers, a combination of sunken structures and newly-dug tunnels. Was this the room where his father had died? There were many that had been made to look intentionally alike, and now, with the city's destruction evident in the condition of the rooms, it was impossible to guess. It made him smile to think that this was the same room, however, and so he decided it must be.  
  
He passed from the throne room and into a narrow passage, gliding over flagstones and past torches as he made his way towards the crypt. At the end of the hall, he encountered a lone guard, a Nerubian. He restrained himself from drawing his sword, and smiled at the creature. He spoke but a single whispered word, and the sentinel scurried away. He would not be disturbed.  
  
He stepped through the doorway, his nostrils taking in the stench of decomposition. He had found his quarry. Against the rear wall, a figure had been chained, positioned to face the wall so that he could not see a person entering the room. The prisoner's form was vague, obscured by pounds of white webbing which had practically encased him. Arthas moved forward to touch the figure's shoulder.  
  
"I knew you would come," said a voice. Arthas smiled.  
  
He reached forward with both hands, prying sections of webbing from the prisoner's prone form. Little by little, the biological chains were stripped clean like flesh from a corpse, revealing the skeleton below.  
  
"Kel'thuzad," Arthas said. "We have much to talk about."

* * *

Sylvanas stirred again, her eyes opening in narrow slits. It was later than before. The sunlight now streamed through her tiny window, a testament to the hour. Hers was one of few chambers in the Undercity that allowed the light in, as most of her minions preferred the darkness. It was late morning, she guessed, perhaps a couple of hours before noon. She rose from the bed and shed her nightgown, crossing the floor to where her armor and cloak hung on the far wall. She feared no intrusion; her minions knew that her quarters were private. A necromancer had attempted to enter once, a prisoner captured in a skirmish with the Scourge who entertained the fantasy that he could woo her and thereby make a place for himself at the head of the Forsaken. His body was displayed for a fortnight in the main hall, and his head was never seen again. No one else had ever bothered Sylvanas in her bedroom.  
  
She pulled the armor on slowly. She was in no rush, for she never was. The day would be waiting to greet her when she was ready. She yawned and stretched, her mind idly reaching out to touch those of her sisters and minions. She closed her eyes as she watched in her mind those who slept, and the few who patrolled the outer corridors. In the short time she had led the Forsaken, no enemy had reached the outskirts of the Undercity to challenge her. The Scourge and the Alliance each maintained strongholds nearby, and thanks to her unique tactical position beneath the ground, they tended to encounter and embattle each other before they could reach her.  
  
Her eyes opened widely. There was an intruder in the city. She could see him vaguely, his aura flashing in her mind. Where was he? She pushed outward with her mind, contacting each of her sisters in turn, looking through their eyes. He was not in the graveyard or the necropolis... He was not in the main hall, although it was possible he had been there, for her ghouls detected the scent of an intruder there... Where was he?  
  
_The crypt_. Of course. She cursed aloud.  
  
_Kel'thuzad._  
  
One of the patrolling banshees asked if they should move in on the intruder, but Sylvanas stopped her, ordering that a cadre surround the crypt but wait for her order before entering. She did not want to the intruder to kill Kel'thuzad out of panic. He was still of use to her.  
  
_He must tell me what I want to know about the Sunwell._  
  
_The Sunwell..._  
  
She had to reach him before anything could happen. She had to...

* * *


End file.
